


Ask of thee forgiveness

by ellie-nors (flamewarrior)



Series: God's Spies [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Clubbing, F/M, Flashbacks, Harry is a terrible dancer, Kilburn, London, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Muggle London, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Recreational Drug Use, camden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/ellie-nors
Summary: Harry's finally found ways to cope with the aftermath of defeating Voldemort, ones that his bosses at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement aren't too happy about. The DMLE sends an agent to make sure Harry's not going completely off the rails: one Draco Malfoy, missing-presumed-dead to everyone but the Wizarding Secret Service, and thus one of their most valuable covert operatives.A story of memories, secrets, deception, and forgiveness.





	1. The dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I began after reading _Half-Blood Prince_ and never quite finished. It's probably about a quarter to a third written. I'm posting it to encourage myself to finally finish it! If you recognise it, it's because I previously posted it under the title 'Memories and Secrets' at both hexfiles and here at AO3 under my flamewarrior handle, then removed it when I didn't think I was going to finish it. Now it's back :-) 
> 
> The torture and rape elements are all in flashback, and aren't all that graphic, but I prefer to err on the side of caution, and I will give detailed content notes at the end of each chapter, for those who might need them.

Harry woke up with damp cheeks. He'd been dreaming. In his dream, he'd been sitting beside a lake with Sirius, fishing. They hadn't spoken, had hardly looked at one another, but it had been so peaceful; Harry had been so content. Now he was awake, quiet tears trailing down his cheeks, a tightness in his throat, an endless aching in his chest. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, telling himself to pull himself together. He beat the duvet off his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet thumping onto the dusty rug. His anger at himself propelled him into the bathroom, where he pushed off his white boxers and turned on the shower, ignoring his reflection in the mirror above the sink, feeling a sneaking relief as it disappeared behind a layer of condensation.

Most mornings were like this. He didn't always dream of Sirius. Sometimes, he dreamed of sipping tea with Dumbledore, right hand whole and wrinkled and pink just like his left, in a rose garden in the grounds of Hogwarts. Harry didn't even remember if there had been a rose garden at Hogwarts, but in his dream, there was. Sometimes, he dreamed of wandering along the edge of the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid and Fang, somehow not surprised to notice apple trees growing there. Sometimes, he dreamed of sitting up on a hill overlooking The Burrow with his arm around Ginny, her head on his shoulder, watching the sun setting in red and pink and gold. The dreams were different, but when he woke, it was always the same: the tears, the tightness, the ache.

But on some mornings, he didn't wake up crying. On those mornings, he woke up hard, or with come on his belly, or both. On those mornings, he woke from dreaming a very different dream. In this dream, he lies on his back on rich cotton sheets, hands tied high above his head, white blonde hair trailing on his face, being bitten and licked and fucked by Malfoy.

He has no idea why he dreams of Malfoy this way. Oh, he knows why he dreams about him. It's the same reason he dreams about all the others who died in the war, the ones he feels responsible for. But why does he dream of him _this_ way? Perhaps it's the only way his mind can arrange the two of them that doesn't involve fighting. He thinks he should be disturbed by these dreams, but it's too much effort. If he's honest, they don't disturb him at all. If he's really honest, they're a relief, a release. Far more pleasant to wake up aroused than crying. It reminds him he's alive, that he's here, now. 

He needs as many reminders as he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter obliquely references both canon and non-canon deaths of characters Harry loves, and one he doesn't.


	2. The assignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if you think it needs them.

Draco sighed. He hadn't quite believed it when Moody had handed him his latest assignment. He'd always known that particular mark was a possibility, of course, but a faint one, surely. Didn't the Ministry trust their Golden Boy, saviour of the Wizarding World, not to spill secrets? Or was it that they didn't think he could look after himself? 

Draco snorted softly to himself. Apparently not.

He had, of course, argued with Moody, attempted to cajole him, had even for one brief moment considered bribery. But the madman was quite insistent. Draco was the best operative they had, he'd said, couldn't send anyone else to keep an eye on Potter, their best Auror. So Draco had sighed, and held his hand out for the parchment detailing what the Department knew about Potter's comings and goings, the changes and inconsistencies that had brought this assignment about.

Now, he sat in front of his fireplace in his London flat, curled up in his Queen Anne chair, Port in hand as he perused the parchment in detail. The fire crackled and glowed and danced, taking the chill and damp off the November air. Draco, however, didn't feel any warmer for it. He sighed, put down the drink and the parchment, and was still for a moment. Picking up his wand, he flicked it gently in the air, and music began, a strange, beautiful, barely human voice rising over distorted, wavering chords. He closed his eyes in pleasure, then smirked to himself. Perhaps if he'd known when he was younger that Muggles could produce music like this he'd have questioned his family's ideals a little more.

He lay down on the rug in front of the fire, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He sighed again, thoughts returning to the matter at hand. He was going to have to be very, very careful with this assignment. He hadn't been seen in his own skin for years, except in his own flat or Moody's office. He was adept and efficient at Glamours and self-transfigurations and Polyjuice Potions and Disillusionment Charms. He prided himself that he had not once had to use an Obliviate in his work for the Ministry. But still he felt wary. This was the first time he'd had to pass unnoticed by someone who'd really seen him up close before the war, before he'd disappeared from view. 

Of course, he had an advantage: Potter still thought he was dead. Everyone apart from the Minister for Magic and Alastor Moody thought he was dead, and those two wanted to keep it that way. It was what made Draco so effective at his job. It was too risky to set Aurors to track Aurors, they all knew each other and could never be trusted not to tip each other off about the Ministry's 'concerns'. Draco, however, had no such loyalties. Not that he was loyal to the Ministry either, but he could be trusted never to blow his cover. He was the one who had asked to stay 'dead', after all, which made him the perfect undercover investigator - one who, officially, didn't exist.

So why did he feel this assignment was so different? Was it really about Potter recognising him, or was it something else, something in Draco? If he was honest, what was making him nervous was the fact that he didn't know how he would react to being around Potter. It had been years since he'd seen him. The last time had been that horrible, messy duel in the toilets. He could still remember the shock on Potter's face when he'd seen what he'd done. Strange, he thought, how remembering that made him smile. Then he remembered the last but one time he'd been in close quarters with him, and he stopped smiling.

Irritated with himself, he Accio-ed the parchment from where it sat, half curled into itself on the chair. He held it above his head and cleared his mind, beginning to read the information in earnest. At first, he couldn't see why the Ministry were worried. So, Potter had started to go out and enjoy himself a bit. Good for him! Draco had never seen the problem with excessive sex and drugs, and rather wished he could have a bit more of that sort of thing himself. Potter was only indulging himself in the Muggle world, too, so what was the problem? Little chance of seeing his bleary eyes or naked arse on display in the Daily Prophet, and there was no suggestion that his nocturnal activities were affecting his work.

When he'd read through all of the information, however, Draco did begin to think that maybe the Ministry had a point. Going out and getting high and well-laid with Muggles was one thing. Doing so in a Glamour even a Squib could see through, however, was something else entirely. What on earth was he thinking? He was making himself horribly vulnerable. Did he think that Dark wizards wouldn't notice him? That they were all so averse to Muggles that they wouldn't follow him into Muggle London's nightlife? That they wouldn't slip a potion into his drink? That once, just once, the person tying him up might do something other than suck his cock? He was the Ministry's most effective Auror, for Merlin's sake, and more than that, he was Harry Potter. Circe only knew how many wizards still held grudges against him from the war. Didn't he realise he was a target wherever he went?

Draco shook his head. Something was very definitely wrong with Potter. He knew he'd always been a bit foolhardy, a bit too quick to act before thinking, but this was rank stupidity. Slowly, he sat up and reached for his Port, taking a long sip. He began to feel warm for the first time that evening and sighed contentedly. With Potter in whatever bizarre frame of mind he was currently in, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to pass under his nose undetected after all.


	3. The new friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if it needs them.

Harry was getting ready to go out for the fourth time that week. He ran his fingers through his hair again, until the wax held it securely. He knew it didn't look any different from when he got out of bed every morning, but he liked the feeling of putting effort into his appearance. Going out wasn't the same without the preparation, the shiver in his gut it induced, and even though he went out more nights than he stayed in these days, he still got that feeling, still craved it.

Going out clubbing had started as a distraction for Harry. When the dreams had become unbearable, he'd stayed awake all night instead, but even with music playing or radio or TV in the background, staying awake on his own all night was almost worse than the dreams. At least in the dreams he had company.

When he'd first thought of going out instead, he'd dismissed the idea almost immediately. It wasn't as if anyone would notice any difference at work - he was barely getting any sleep as it was, and had had his Manincede Charm down pat for weeks - but he didn't enjoy wizarding night life. He was sure to get free drinks wherever he went, but he was just as sure to see his own face looking out at him from the Daily Prophet the next day, or to have some Witch corner him and try to talk her way into his boxers all night. Or both. The thought made him feel slightly sick. 

Then it had struck him. He didn't have to go to a wizarding club, where everyone knew him and wanted a piece of him to take home, even after all this time. He could go out amongst Muggles and be completely, blissfully anonymous. The thought had so excited Harry that he had sat up for the next three nights, simply enjoying the thrill of anticipation. 

By comparison, the first club he went to was something of a disappointment. He should have known better than to think he could have a good time anywhere in Surrey. 

Guildford, Harry had decided, was thoroughly dreary. The Pink Pagoda's neon sign, flashing and reflecting - pinkly - from the puddles on the wet pavement, was the brightest thing he'd seen all evening. It was that which had made him choose the club - that and the fact that he had been fed up of looking and wanted to escape the dampness in the air. The queue of revellers in front of the black doors really hadn't look dressed for the weather, in Harry's opinion. Autumn was only just getting into its swing, but still, Harry was feeling cold even under his raincoat, so he hadn't seen how mini-skirts and bare legs and frills over exposed cleavage could be nearly enough protection from the weather.

Harry himself had dressed rather conservatively, never having been to a Muggle club before and not really knowing what was expected. He hadn't seen how he could go wrong with black trousers and a white shirt. After an hour of trying - and failing - to get a drink, being brushed off when he tried to start conversations and stared at when he didn't, Harry had decided to risk the dance floor. He knew he wasn't much of a dancer, but then no-one seemed to be doing much more than shuffling their feet and wiggling their elbows anyway. It would have been difficult to do much else to the thudding, booming noise that was coming out of the speakers next to the stage.

Harry had just started to get bored of dancing by himself when a rather large, rather angry-looking man in a green and yellow dogtooth shirt had accused him of "looking at his bird". Having lived away from Muggles for a long time, and never having had the opportunity to learn about their mating habits first hand, Harry had found the whole incident rather bemusing, especially when the man had started drunkenly shoving at him. At that point, he'd decided he'd had enough, left the club, and Apparated home as soon as he was out of sight.

But the experience hadn't deterred him from his plan. The prospect of lonely or dream-filled nights had been entirely too much for him to give up so soon. So he had decided to keep on trying until he found a club that had what he was looking for. Of course, it might have helped if he'd known what he was looking for, other than a way to spend his nights that didn't leave him anguished or bored. But he hadn't, so he had kept on trying different clubs. Just not in Surrey. 

But after the numerous small clubs he'd visited in provincial towns proved to be much of a muchness (despite their not being in Surrey) Harry had decided to bite the bullet and venture out into Muggle London. He'd avoided that at first. So many of his colleagues worked and lived in London, and Aurors were sometimes required to enter Muggle society for investigations. He wanted to escape into another world, not run into someone he knew. 

So he had cast a temporary vision correcting charm and thrown on a simple glamour. All it did was disguise his scar and change the shape of his nose a bit, but he'd figured that, what with losing the glasses and the fact that no-one would be expecting to see him, it should give him enough of a head start to avoid any familiar faces.

His first try out in a London club, however, had been no more a success than his first experience in Guildford. Happening on two women kissing passionately in the corridor by the toilets, without anyone around them batting an eyelid, hadn't phased Harry. He'd just thought it was people being cosmopolitan; this was London after all. However, when another man had groped his arse on the dancefloor, he'd realised his mistake and left in short order. His dreams notwithstanding, the real life experience of another man getting close to him like that had left him feeling dizzy and prickling all over his insides.

Harry had a few more false starts: a very, very sleazy club where the women got in for free, a salsa bar which had been fun but a little too energetic for his taste, a fetish and SM club that had scared him half to death. Then one night he had finally found what he was looking for in the basement of an unassuming-looking pub in Camden.

At first he'd thought it was another fetish club, so many people were dressed in black leather or rubber, with even the odd spiked collar or chain on display. But he couldn't see anyone actually tied up, or any whips being wielded, so he settled in by the bar for a while to take the place in.

That was the first thing in the club's favour - Harry had no trouble being served at the bar, and the staff actually seemed friendly. As he looked around the dark room, with its black walls and red upholstery and purple and blue lights, he noticed something else unusual. The people there seemed to be all ages from teens to fifties, and dancing or drinking or talking together across the age-range without discomfort. Well, as much as they could over the music - but it was definitely music, not the solid thumping noise that had played at most places he'd been. 

Of course, it was a little difficult to tell age, or gender for that matter, with the amount of make-up a lot of people were wearing. But it was certainly creative, and after watching for a while, he had had the feeling that, rather than being a mask to hide behind, the make-up allowed people to be more themselves. Once he'd got used to it, the feeling of being surrounded by androgyny had made Harry feel strangely at home. 

The real breakthrough had come when Harry had gone to use the toilets. His first surprise had been that there was just one room with cubicles down one wall and sinks down the other, obviously being used by both men and women. His second surprise was when someone had grabbed his shirt sleeve as he entered, and asked his opinion on some philosophical question that had made no sense to him whatsoever. But instead of being dismissed when he hadn't been able to add to the debate, the group who'd accosted him had asked him his name and introduced themselves. 

Their names had been Dale, Natalie and Matt, and they had taken him under their wing, although they were all several years younger than he was. After three short weeks, they had become the closest thing he'd had to friends in a long time. Not followers, not colleagues, not brothers-in-arms; just friends. They'd introduced him to people, taken him to other clubs and bars, even shopping at Camden Lock on Sunday afternoons. 

Then they'd introduced him to drugs, and that what was when Harry's nights had become really interesting.


	4. The sighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if it needs them.

Dean Thomas had been the first to spot Harry. He was in Leeds visiting some of his Muggle friends who were at university there before term began. They only ever went to dive clubs when Dean visited, partly because the beer was cheap but mostly to have a laugh at the regulars' expense. They loved it when Dean mucked about with magic, and that evening they'd convinced him to cast a Glamour on himself that made him look like a Muggle film star, just to see what reactions he'd get. Very few so far; it seemed the regulars were either too drunk to notice, or weren't into the cult of celebrity.

It happened about half way through the evening. Dean had just come back from the men's toilets and was sniggering to himself. Some wag had penned "Lesbians are everywhere" on the wall next to one of the urinals. Dean had been sorely tempted to cross out "Lesbians" and write "Aurors" instead, but he hadn't thought anyone would get the joke. He'd returned to his seat, brought his pint glass to his lips, taken a big mouthful then nearly sprayed the lot into his friends' faces when he'd seen Harry alone on the dance floor. 

Good god, Harry was a crap dancer.

Dean had spent a good twenty seconds just staring at him until one of his friends, Ian, hit him on the shoulder and said something about not knowing he was into other men like that. Dean had frowned and hit him back.

"He's a friend from school," he'd said. "I just didn't expect to see him here."

Ian had put his arm round Dean's shoulder. "Why don't you go and say hello, then?" 

Dean had turned to him, an incredulous look on his face. "I don't exactly look like myself at the moment, do I?"

"Oh, yeah." His friend had looked sheepish. "Well, he went to school with you, isn't he a wizard too? Won't he know it's you anyway?"

"Nah, this works on Wizards and Witches too, unless they know to expect it." Which Harry should, Dean had thought. He was an Auror, and a bloody good one. He should behave as if he expected trouble at all times.

Dean had taken a sip from his pint. "Come on, I'm fed up of this place. Let's go somewhere else."

"We haven't finished our pints yet."

Dean had stood up and picked up his jacket. "Well drink up then." He was getting bad-tempered, and his friends knew the signs.

"Okay, okay, keep your hair on." 

Ian had turned to the other two and after a bit of back and forth, they too had downed their pints and gathered their belongings. Dean had already been halfway to the door by that time, and had hurried to have a moment to himself on the cold street outside. Quickly checking no-one was around, he'd ended the Glamour, the better to be able to concentrate on his thoughts.

What was Harry doing here? If he'd been on a job, he'd have been disguised somehow, surely? He'd have to ask some questions when he got back to London. He didn't want to drop Harry in it, though - he certainly wasn't going to go to Shacklebolt. That would lead to an official investigation; Dean had shuddered at the thought. No, this would have to stay away from the high-ups. Perhaps Tonks would know something. 

He had shaken himself back to the present as Ian and the others had emerged onto the street, and smiled. Whatever was going on, it could wait until Monday.


	5. The spliff

It was a Saturday in October, and Harry was round at the house Dale, Natalie and Matt shared near Kilburn cemetery. It was the first time he'd been there, and he rather liked it. It was small, and not very nicely decorated, and the furniture was all old and worn, but it was a very, very relaxed place. His own flat seemed cold and stark by comparison.

They'd all been to Covent Garden that afternoon, and Harry had come back home with them to get ready to go out that night. They were in the kitchen, Matt cooking pasta, the rest of them sitting around the battered old dining table while Natalie did a Tarot reading for Dale.

Harry had been alarmed when he'd seen the cards come out. Were his friends not Muggles after all? But then he'd watched for a bit, and seen that Natalie wasn't truly Divining. She was remembering associations, telling a story based on the images in front of her and what she knew of Dale. He smiled to himself - it seemed just as useful as anything Trelawney had ever taught, if not more so. He could see that Dale was hearing what he needed to hear to help him put his questions into perspective. Natalie was really rather good at it.

She noticed his interest. 

"Do you want me to do a reading for you, Harry?" she asked, when she'd finished with Dale.

Harry smiled and shook his head. "No, it's fine thanks, Nat. No questions I want to ask."

She smiled back and put her cards away. Dale ducked under the table to his bag, and emerged a moment later with a small, flat tin. It had a painting of a dragon on the lid. 

"Anyone fancy a spliff?"

A groan of relief came from the direction of the cooker. "I thought you'd never ask!"

"Well you could always get some of your own you know, Matt."

Matt turned round and gave them all a wide grin. "Why bother, when I have such wonderful friends? Anyway, I do all the cooking. I think I deserve some privileges."

Natalie grinned back and stuck out her tongue, the white and pink of her mouth looking strange against her black-painted lips. Dale was concentrating on sticking small pieces of thin paper together, a corner of his tongue protruding from between his lips, spiked-up hair flopping over his forehead. 

Harry didn't want to sound stupid, but he hadn't a clue what was going on, so he asked anyway.

"What's a spliff?"

Matt dropped his spoon into the pan of pasta sauce he'd been stirring, Natalie's jaw hung open and Dale went completely still. All three of them stared at him. 

Harry felt heat rising up his neck. "What? What did I say?"

Dale gave a high-pitched giggle. "I cannot believe you don't know what a spliff is, Harry. Where did you grow up, in a convent?"

Harry blushed in earnest and Natalie slapped Dale's arm. 

"Don't be rude to the guest."

"Oi!" Dale grinned. "I'm carrying out a delicate operation here. Less of the violence."

Natalie blew Dale a kiss and laughed and Matt turned back to the pasta sauce, rolling his eyes.

"So, what is a spliff?" Harry asked, more quietly this time.

Dale was absorbed in his task again, but Natalie looked over at Harry, a smirk toying at the left corner of her mouth. 

"You honestly don't know, Harry?"

"I honestly don't know." 

He was feeling embarrassed again, but if he was going to be included in doing whatever it was you did with a spliff, he wanted to know what a spliff was before he did it. 

"Okay, Harry, what do you know about drugs?" Natalie spoke as if explaining something very simple to an incredibly dense child.

Harry frowned at her. "Nothing. Well, I mean I've heard of cocaine and heroine, and that they're bad news, and that drugs are illegal and I should 'just say no', but that's about it."

"Well, Harry, a spliff is a combination of tobacco, which you get in cigarettes, and the resin or dried leaves of the cannabis plant. You smoke it."

"Oh," said Harry. "What does it do?"

Dale joined in. "Makes you happy, horny and hungry," he shot Harry a reassuring smile, "and very, very relaxed."

"Oh," said Harry again, aware he was sounding rather stupid. "So if that's all it does, why is it against the law?"

Matt's voice chimed in. "Because it threatens the hegemony of the Weberian work ethic which keeps us all in wage slavery to the industrial capitalist machine."

"There speaks the sociology student," muttered Dale.

"Nah," said Natalie, "it's because it's fun, and anything that's fun has a law against it. If you didn't need sex to make babies, I'm sure that'd be illegal too."

"It is in some states in the US, you know," Matt interjected, "you can only have sex in the missionary position."

"Uh oh, Matt's off on a tangent again."

"Fuck off, Dale. I happen to think it's a very interesting tangent."

"Well, if you don't shut up, you won't get any of this joint, so..." Dale looked at Matt meaningfully.

Matt scowled at Dale, opened his mouth, closed it again, then said mildly, "Mouth shutting," and turned back to the cooker. "Grub's up anyway. Make a space and I'll serve."

Harry was rather bewildered by the exchange between the three of them, but he was used to that by now. He sat back as Natalie laid the table and Matt served up the food. It was really very good - tomato and garlic and fresh basil and anchovies, and Harry concentrated on eating for the next few minutes. When they'd all finished, Natalie cleared the table while Matt took her seat, and Dale continued to build the spliff.

After a short silence, while Dale emptied a cigarette and heated and crumbled something into the paper, Harry commented, "It looks awfully complicated, making that spliff thing." 

Dale was now licking and sealing and carefully putting a rolled up piece of cardboard into one end of a bulging, white, almost-cylinder twice the length of Harry's little finger. He looked up, obviously amused.

"Not really. I find it relaxing. It's a bit like a meditation."

"Ah, the church of ganja," added Matt, "But the smoking's the thing."

"Patience, patience" said Dale, twisting the other end of the cylinder to close it off. Then he lifted the whole thing to his lips and lit the twist of paper with his lighter. It glowed bright orange as he inhaled deeply. He continued to inhale as his lips left the paper and he passed the spliff and the lighter to Matt. Harry watched as Matt did the same thing and passed them on to Natalie, who had pulled up a stool and was leaning back against the edge of the sink. Dale still hadn't exhaled. 

Then Natalie was handing the spliff and the lighter to Harry. He must have been looking nervous, because she said, "'s okay Harry, just put the spliff between your lips, and inhale as you light the end to breathe in the smoke. Then pull the spliff away and keep breathing in for a second. Simple." Harry glanced at her open face, wanting to be reassured. He still felt anxious, but he did as he was told. 

The smoke was hot and harsh on his throat and he coughed immediately, dimly aware of a swirl of sensation descending from his lungs to his groin as he breathed in to cough again. His head prickled and started to spin as his eyes watered. 

Matt chuckled low in his throat. "Take's a bit of getting used to at first." His expression turned into a leer as he moved to face Natalie. "Hey, Nat, why don't you give him a blowback next go round? Easier on the throat." 

Natalie rolled her eyes at Matt as Harry, still coughing, passed everything on to Dale. He wondered what part of the experience Natalie thought was fun, but didn't say anything, his coughing fit finally over. Matt got up and put on a CD from the stack sitting on the windowsill above the sink. The music was quiet but insistent, the drum beat and the bassline throbbing through Harry's bloodstream.

When the spliff came round to him again, Natalie didn't hand it to him. He looked at her questioningly. She smiled, a little coyly, he thought. "I'm going to take up Matt's suggestion and give you a blowback. It's a bit like a kiss, but without tongues." Harry blushed; Natalie giggled. "Don't worry, Harry, it doesn't mean anything. It's just a way for you to get the benefits of the dope without all that coughing and choking. Just open your mouth and breathe in when I cover yours with mine, okay?"

Harry wasn't really sure it was okay, but after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. In for a knut, in for a galleon. Natalie moved her stool up next to his chair, and he tilted his head to the side as she took a deep drag, keeping her mouth closed as she put the spliff down in the ash tray next to her on the table. She placed her lips over his, and opened her mouth just as he was doing the same. Her lipstick felt sticky, and the make-up on her skin smelled slightly sweet and musty next to his nose. He felt her breathing out, so he breathed in, and... ah. Oh. Okay. Perhaps he could see what was fun about this.

The tingling sensation started in his mouth and extended over his face and chest and arms. A jolt of sensation shot right through his cock, and he gasped, taking even more smoke into his lungs. His head was spinning again, but in an entirely pleasant way, and a warm shiver rose up his spine.

He sank back into his chair as Natalie lifted her lips from his, and he blew out a long stream of smoke. He didn't feel like he ever wanted to move again. Dale was chuckling as he took the spliff from the ashtray. "Nice?" he asked.

Harry made a happy, humming sound. "Very."

After that, the evening went from good to better. Natalie and Dale brought half their wardrobes down into the lounge, and spent half an hour deciding what to wear, then forty minutes convincing Harry to wear something of theirs too. Eventually he caved in (although he said no to make-up), and walked out the door in black canvas cargo pants covered in steel chains, a ripped, dark purple t-shirt which made his eyes shine in contrast, and a black leather biker's jacket. Matt just wore jeans and a Clash t-shirt, same as usual, and Dale and Nat complained at him all the way to the bus stop about being so boring.

By the time the bus arrived, Harry had started to straighten out somewhat, but the conversation between the four of them was still decidedly surreal. Their fellow passengers sent a mixture of amused and disapproving looks in their direction, which Natalie instantly mimicked. Harry almost feel out of his chair at her impression of the tutting middle-aged woman with the tiny dog on her arm, he was laughing so hard.

He was almost straight by the time they got to Camden and into the basement of the pub. The bouncers nodded at the four of them, and flirted with Natalie, as they entered. Once inside, they found an empty table in a shadowed corner, and Dale promptly and calmly proceeded to construct another spliff while Matt and Harry went to get drinks. 

Later, Harry would put it all down to the drink and drugs. Dale had been right, the dope made him happy, horny, hungry and relaxed, none of which were his usual frame of mind, so when he saw a young woman staring at him from across the dancefloor, he didn't ignore her, or feel embarrassed, he simply excused himself and walked right over to her. It was only a few minutes before they were kissing hungrily. Harry didn't stay in the club very long, and he didn't leave alone.

When he woke from dreaming the next morning in a strange bed, his face buried in ginger curls, he found that the hair had soaked up most of his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed description of recreational drug use in this chapter, plus a mention of casual sex.


	6. The park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if it needs them.

Draco was sitting on a bench, feeding the ducks, enjoying the change in the weather. It had been a sunny day for November, almost warm, but the sudden cooling of the air as dusk approached was causing a mist to rise from the Serpentine. It was as if the lake had two surfaces, one dark and limpid, contrasting the mud and grass around it, the other white and shifting, blurring the boundary between water and land. Which was more deceptive Draco didn't know. He'd tried swimming in the Serpentine once. He shuddered, remembering. It had turned out there was a reason the lake had that name, a reason Muggles would never know about. Lucky sods. 

He looked up at the other people nearby who were ensuring, like him, that the fowl of Hyde Park survived the winter months. He pondered once again the difference between Muggles and Wizards, and how it was that he could sense that difference when physically close to someone, when so many Wizarding kind couldn't. Both of those things, he had long concluded, were an accident of birth, a result of what Muggles called genetics. He let his mind trace around the problem. Scientifically, he knew genetics was the answer, but philosophically?

He sighed. He knew that, philosophically, there wasn't an answer. Or that there were many answers, each equally flawed and unsatisfying. Mentally, he tutted at himself. An old woman a few yards away to his left was throwing bits of crust onto the water. Draco let the questions of fate and birth slip away from his mental grasp, and watched the crumbs disappearing under the mist. 

There was no getting away from it. He was nervous. He was never this unfocused before starting on a new job. It was some time yet before he needed to get to the Ministry. Normally, he would have used such time to review details of his mark, deciding on tactics and strategy. He didn't necessarily like his job, but he was thorough, professional. It bothered him that his mind was wandering like this, that instead of planning his approach he was sitting in a park and busying his mind with philosophical navel-gazing.

He adjusted his position and closed his eyes, sitting upright. He took some stilling breaths and sought to refocus his attention within himself. He could do this; he did it every day, for goodness sake, he was a disciplined person with a calm mind. He frowned, opening his eyes and forcing his breath out through his nose. What was it about Potter that got such a reaction from him? Draco sighed again, feeling defeated. The only way to tackle this kind of thing, he knew, was to go through it. He let his shoulders slump for a moment, then settled himself again, closing his eyes and sitting upright. He made his breathing even and deep, taking no pause between breathing in and breathing out. There was only one way Draco knew to do this. He dropped his inner barriers and allowed his feelings about Potter to rise to the surface. 

And there they were, in all their shocking intensity. He would not, could not allow himself to name the feelings that filled him, he simply allowed the sensation of them to arise in his body and fill his awareness. He felt a nauseating, swirling, prickling sensation floating in his gut, a rippling tension collecting between his shoulders, crawling up his neck, bowing his head. He felt a caving, dropping sensation in his chest, a tightening in his throat. None of it was pleasant. 

He sat like that for some time - seconds, minutes, half an hour, he didn't know - letting the emotions swirl and settle, expand and contract within him, observing and feeling; breathing. He never once let his mind get caught up in them, he just watched them, noticing where they were in his body, giving them colours, shapes, textures, getting inside them, getting to know them through his senses.

Gradually he sat up straight again, slowly drawing his attention outward to the world around him, feeling his feet on the floor, his buttocks and back on the bench, the cool, damp air on his face. He rubbed his hands on his thighs where they were resting, and repeated his own name to himself, silently moving his tongue and lips. Here and now. The sensations of emotion were still there, but muted - present but nowhere near overwhelming - and now his mind was still. 

He settled himself to focus once again, and this time he slipped easily into a calm, clear frame of mind. At last. Now he was ready to work. He sat still, breathing, for some minutes more, centring himself, then opened his eyes and rose from the bench. He looked at his watch. He should leave for the Ministry now; this glamour was highly effective, but no-one expected to see a seventy year old striding with a young man's step, and Draco didn't want to attract any more attention than he had to.


	7. The flat and the fetish club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if it needs them.

He had to change his glamour several times while following Potter from the Ministry building to his home, and he nearly lost him once, only just catching his deftly muted Apparition traces. Potter was certainly sharp, which puzzled Draco a great deal. Why would he be so meticulous about security on the way home, only to let it all fall when he went out in the evening? Draco filed that question away to ponder later, and settled down in the shadows beneath a large lime tree to wait. 

For two hours so far he had sat in the cold and dark, glad of his winter cloak when it began to rain. He watched the raindrops fall, appearing to circle in the orange light from the sodium lamp a few feet away from him. He watched brown and wrinkled leaves on the pavement become wet and soggy and lose their reaching, curling shapes as the rain became heavier. He watched the door to Potter's flat. He had his own door that no-one else used, which had been an enormous relief to Draco. It would make tonight's work that much easier. 

He could see the shimmer of the Tracking Charm stretched across the doorway where raindrops glanced off it every now and then. Apart from that, it was completely undetectable. Not a bad job, if he did say so himself. Now he just had to wait here until Potter left again. Tonight was one of the nights Potter usually went out on the town. Draco hoped he wasn't going to choose now to start changing his recently acquired habits.

A light glowed from the window above Potter's door. There was a pause and the door started to swing inwards. At last. There was Potter, standing in his own doorway, patting the pockets of his leather jacket as if to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He certainly took more care of his appearance now than when Draco had last seen him. He looked mean and moody and oddly vulnerable; he oozed sex. With a bit of imagination, Draco could see the flashing sign above his head, yelling out, "Fuck me now."

Draco shivered and brought his mind back to the job at hand. He noticed the worthless Glamour Potter was using. He concentrated, letting his eyes glaze slightly, and when he focused again he saw through it easily. Hardly worth the bother. What on earth had Potter been thinking of when he decided on it? Lack of scar and a slightly perter nose were hardly going to fool someone who was really looking for him. 

Finally Potter stepped forward, flicked off the light and shut the door behind him. Draco held his breath and shrank further into the shadows. Potter walked forward, into and through the Charm. This was the risky part; always a chance that the Wizard or Witch would feel the Charm, recognise the sensation of walking through Magic. Potter shivered slightly, lifted his collar, hunched his shoulders against the rain and strode off onto the pavement. Draco waited until he turned a corner, then let out his breath. So, he'd taken that little shiver as his reaction to the cold and rain. Good, good.

Draco felt into the inside pocket of his cloak and pulled out a small roll of parchment. He held it out flat and laid the point of his wand against it, angling it to catch some of the light from the streetlamp.

"Demonstro Harry James Potter." His voice was quiet and he reduced the sibilants of his words to a low buzzing, just in case anyone - or anything - had an ear trained.

Slowly, lines drew themselves on the parchment, spreading out like a very organised ink stain from the tip of his wand. When the whole parchment was covered, Draco took a good look. It was a map, with a large red dot at its centre labelled 'HJP' and a few smaller, black dots here and there. The map moved, showing new streets and landmarks, the dot stayed in the middle. Draco looked up at the sign on the corner of the street and back down to the map. Potter was walking at a steady pace away from him. Good. Part one successfully set in train.

Draco emptied the parchment again, rolled it back up and put it back in his pocket. Then, carefully remembering the pictures Moody had shown him, he Apparated indoors with a soft pop.

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Potter's flat was just as soulless in real life as it had looked in the pictures. Draco had ensured the curtains were drawn in each room before returning to the sitting room and summoning a soft light from the end of his wand. He was looking around with more interest than he would like to admit. The furniture was functional and the decor carefully bland. It was strange, he would have expected something a bit more... comfortable, perhaps, or gaudy. It looked like a show home. Perhaps it had been and Potter simply hadn't bothered to redecorate. 

Draco brought his mind back to the matter at hand. The only important thing about each room, he reminded himself, was where to place the Charmed mirrors for maximum coverage. He took a small pouch from his robes and opened it, tipping the contents into his palm and counting. He had twenty in all. That should be more than enough. Even though they were tiny, no bigger than a scarab, each had a viewing orb of a hundred and sixty degrees in all directions, so with two or three in every room he could get an almost perfect view.

He quickly placed one in each corner of the ceiling above the window, concealing them with an undetectable Invisibility Charm, thinking not for the first time that if he ever left the Ministry's employ, they'd have to use one hell of an Obliviate on him; watching the watchers meant he always had access to the most hush-hush, cutting edge Magic available. Whoop de doo, he thought to himself, lucky me. But he took his perks where he could find them. 

He stepped back. That should do for this room. He moved on swiftly through the house, occasionally checking the map for Potter's whereabouts, leaving two or three mirrors in each room. Except in the bedroom. Potter's sex life was, after all, one of the major prompts for this investigation. That's what Draco told himself as he placed the fourth mirror directly over the bed. 

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When Draco had completed setting up the mirrors, and had placed a general Dark Magic Alert Spell over the whole flat, he took the parchment map out again. Potter's red dot was surrounded by smaller black dots. He must have reached whatever club it was he was going to this evening. Draco looked at the street names in the soft light from his wand. Ah, the fetish and SM club. 

Draco had investigated the addresses of the two clubs Potter frequented most often as part of his preparation for this job. As it turned out, he already knew those parts of London quite well. Should he go and do some surveillance in person? He didn't have to, he'd done his work for the night, but this was a good opportunity to see up close what company Potter was keeping. 

This club in particular was one that worried Draco. It seemed just the place to attract Dark Wizards and Witches; the perfect opportunity to get their jollies torturing Muggles with no repercussions. And he had to admit it, he was just plain curious to see for himself what kind of kinks Potter had developed. He smiled wrily at himself. No reason why he couldn't enjoy a job, as long as he still did it well. 

He looked again at the map and identified a side-street, little more than an alleyway, that would be dark and quiet. Good, just a short walk away from the club. He looked down at his clothes and his current glamour. Robes and a winter cloak could just about pass as fetish-wear, he supposed, at a long stretch, but he fancied dressing up tonight. He thought for a moment, then cast the glamour and went into the bedroom to check his efforts in Potter's wardrobe mirror. 

Overlaid on his own face and body was a tall, heavily muscled figure with pale skin, a neat, dark moustache and goatee beard, shaved head and piercings, dressed entirely in leather and rubber. Draco grinned at himself and the effect was quite alarming. He chuckled and, checking the map one last time, Apparated to the alleyway.

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The bouncers had nodded slightly to Draco as he'd walked into the club; he'd obviously got the glamour right. He put on his blandest expression as he walked through the entrance hall and came into the first room of the club. He surveyed his surroundings, extending his senses. The decor was black and silver, leather and rubber and steel, and the clientele mostly wore clothes to match. The lighting was brighter than he'd been expecting, and the music quieter, but then Draco supposed that this was the social area, where people ate peanuts and talked and drank and maybe negotiated their roles for the evening. No Wizarding folk in this room. 

He made his way to the far corner, where a door led into a much darker space. As he walked through the door, the music suddenly became louder. Purple and green lights flashed over a dancefloor where two women were putting on a display. The one on the receiving end wore a leather collar around her neck and very little else. Attached to the collar was a long steel chain, which the other woman held tightly in her left hand while her right brandished a whip. She looked like she knew what she was doing with it, and the collared woman was writhing and quite clearly crying out, although the volume of the music rendered her silent.

The scene diverted Draco for a moment but did nothing to excite him. His attention was swiftly back on the rest of the room. A bar along the far wall, seating around the edges of the room and clustered around small tables. Nothing else but more of the black-clad, perverted clientele, none of whom were Witches or Wizards according to Draco's senses. Where had Potter got to? 

He walked over to the bar, noting the speculative looks he got from some of the women - and, more to his liking, the men - sitting at the tables he passed. When he reached the bar, he rested his foot on the bar rail and leaned over to get the attention of one of the two bar tenders. After an interminably long wait, during which both of them seemed intent mainly on striking poses, the male tender came over to him and flicked his head. Draco held the man's gaze until the bar tender relented and actually asked him what he wanted to drink.

"I'll have a pint of bitter."

"You planning on going into the dungeons with it?" The man nodded his head to the wall behind Draco as he spoke. Dungeons? 

"I might." Draco fixed the man with his coldest stare. He was starting to get annoying.

The man grunted and picked up a plastic glass from a stack next to the till. 

"No glass in the dungeons, no blades and no bloodplay." 

The man appeared to be speaking to the button he was pressing to dispense Draco's drink, but Draco was pretty sure he was speaking to him, so he nodded. The man handed over the drink and it slopped onto the bar as he put it down.

"Three pound eighty."

Draco picked up the drink and very deliberately dropped three pound coins into the puddle on the bar. Without a backward glance, he walked over to the wall the man had nodded at. As he got closer, he saw there was a door in the middle of it, noticeable only by the black line of its edge, almost invisible from far off against the deep purple of the walls. He walked up to it and pushed, and it gave way easily onto a staircase going down, steps painted black, walls painted red. As he walked down the stairs, the sound of music receding behind him, he took in the black and white photographs along the walls: semi-naked people and props in various poses. He was fervently grateful that they were Muggle photographs.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned a corner to the left where, in front of a black swing door a bored looking woman wearing a black rubber mini-dress and far too much make up was painting her nails. She barely glanced up at him, repeating the list of prohibitions the barman had told him and adding a good few more before wishing him a good evening's play and nodding to the door. Draco thought that if he hadn't been working he'd give the manager of this establishment a piece of his mind about the quality of customer service. As it was, he just sighed and stepped on through the door.

The most noticeable thing at first was the sound. There was no music playing here, but the bass of the music from the club upstairs vibrated forcefully through the room. There was a susurration of voices, of many conversations held at close quarters, interspersed with groans and imprecations and the slap of, well, it could be anything, against skin. The light was dim here, but pools of brightness lit up racks and frames, some of which were occupied. 

Draco let his seventh sense extend. Ah, yes, there was a Wizard or Witch here. He followed the sense to an alcove half-way down the room on the right hand side. He kept carefully to the left side of the room, where there was an empty section of wall. He leant against it, affecting nonchalance, and glanced up under cover of taking a swig of his drink. He swallowed his mouthful with difficulty, and slowly bent to put his drink on the floor with shaking fingers. 

Before him stood Potter, bare arms stretched high over his head, wrists tied to the top of an A-frame, ankles shackled to its base, wearing only a tightly fitting pair of leather trousers. His skin was coated with sweat and there were red marks over his skin. A flail swung across Potter's belly and the sight and sound of it sent a shudder through Draco that ended in his groin. 

He swallowed again, mouth dry and throat thick. Potter's head was arched back, face stretched into a mask of intense feeling - whether pleasure or pain or some mixture Draco couldn't tell. He could feel his heartbeat quickening, throbbing in his cock. When the person holding the flail came into view, walking in front of Potter, Draco's pulse became a thundering in his ears.

She was tall, for a woman, slender, toned. She had barely any hips or breasts to speak of, and above the sharp angles of her face, pale blonde hair hung in a straight curtain to just below her ears. 

Draco stared. He couldn't blink, he couldn't move. He stretched out his senses to check the room again - no other Wizards or Witches - but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene in front of him, couldn't make his body move at all. His blood was singing as it raced through his veins, his flesh prickling, his skin shivering, watching Potter submit, watching him surrender to sensations caused by this blonde who...

Draco shook himself. Coincidence. Coincidence. It was just coincidence. Still shaking, he walked back the way he had come, through the door, up the stairs, into the main club and then out, out past the whipping and the talking and the bouncers, out into the cold and the rain, into the alleyway. He stood still, letting the rain wash over him, waiting until his shaking was a reaction to the cold and wet and nothing more. 

He Apparated home immediately. He ended the Glamour, stripped off his wet clothes and poured himself a very large Firewhiskey. By the time he'd reached the bathroom to run himself a bath, it was nearly all gone.


	8. The stakeout

It was several weeks before Draco tracked Potter in person again. He watched him sometimes, as he did tonight, the receiving mirror propped up against the wall in his sitting room, reflecting the fire in the hearth as well as images of Potter's flat. Draco sat in his Queen Anne chair, Port in hand. Some nights it was Firewhisky, but tonight it was Port. He watched Potter's image over the top of his glass, flicking his wand towards the mirror to change which room he could see, which angle. He watched as Potter made food, watched television, got ready to go out. So far, he had restrained himself from watching Potter in the bathroom. Or the bedroom. He told himself he was respecting the man's privacy.

Each evening and night and weekend, he observed the red dot labelled 'HJP' on his Tracking parchment. He watched it walking, Apparating, catching the train, taking the bus, travelling on the tube. He watched it surrounded by little black dots in spaces he knew were clubs and he imagined Potter drinking and dancing and talking and... 

Yes. And.

He watched where the red dot went afterwards. Sometimes it would return home, alone. Sometimes it would go with three black dots to a house in Kilburn. There, it would sleep alone. Sometimes, it would travel next to just one black dot, taking the tube, the bus, the train; never Apparating, never going to Potter's own flat. He would watch as the two dots entered a house - one of two different houses, therefore, Draco assumed, with one of two different black dots. He would watch as the two dots got closer, as they turned into one dot, half black, half red.

At one of the houses, the red dot would stay all night, close to the little black dot, going straight to the Ministry in the morning. At the other house, the red dot would go home almost as soon as the one dot became two again. When that happened, Draco's eyes moved between the map in his hand, which moved backwards and forwards around the red dot, and the mirror propped next to his fireplace, where Potter paced up and down in his sitting room, or his kitchen, raking his fingers through his hair and furrowing his brow. Draco thought he knew which black dot it was that he was with when he left in such a hurry, even without seeing which club Potter went to to meet it. After watching Potter pacing up and down, Draco would go to bed, feeling unsettled. He would wake from his dreams in a troubled state, filled with longing and self-loathing.

Thankfully, tonight was a Kilburn night. Draco cleared the parchment, rolled it up and stood by the fireplace. Putting his glass down on the mantelpiece, he pressed a moulding on the ornate dado rail with his wand. A small compartment opened in the wall. He placed the parchment carefully into the space and pressed again with his wand. He gazed at it as it closed, eyes unfocused.

He picked up his Port glass and swirled the contents slowly, ruby-lit by the fire below him. Three weeks of watching the parchment and the mirror. Draco sighed. He knew he couldn't avoid seeing Potter for much longer. He hadn't learned anything so far that wasn't in the report he had received at the beginning of the assignment, and Moody was becoming frustrated at his lack of progress. He hadn't said anything, but it was easy to tell. 

Draco was reluctant; he didn't want any more surprises like the one he'd received in that club. But he also knew that he was meant to be keeping an eye on Potter for his protection as much as to find out what he was up to in his time off; he could hardly protect him from inside this flat. Draco pondered what his next move could be. He really didn't feel up to watching Potter work the clubs, but he was genuinely interested in what he did on his weekends, in daylight. He seemed to spend a lot of time near Kilburn Cemetery, and regularly spent Sunday afternoons at Camden Lock, with the same three black dots, as far as Draco could work out, in both locations.

Well then, Sunday afternoon at Camden Lock it would be.

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Draco swung his legs as he sat on top of the cemetery wall. The day was dull but dry, warmer than the previous week but still cold enough. He was glad he'd remembered to cast a Warming Charm on himself before he'd left home. The denim jacket he was wearing was nowhere near thick enough, and if the wind picked up he had a cold and miserable day ahead of him. 

He had decided to follow Potter from Kilburn to Camden rather than trying to find him in Camden itself in the inevitable press of bodies. The Muggle Christmas season was already well under way - although it was still only the beginning of December - which meant, Draco had learned, a collective buying frenzy of truly awe-inspiring proportions.

He had picked a nice non-descript Glamour - light brown hair, hazel eyes, medium height, slight build. It usually got him around without being noticed. The clothes, too, he had chosen so as not to stand out - jeans and trainers, blue T-shirt, denim jacket and dark blue knitted scarf. He was facing the gravestones, waiting with his back to Tennyson Road for Potter and his acquaintances to leave their house and head off to the High Road for the bus to Camden. He was just wondering if he shouldn't have just waited for them off the bus at the other end when he heard a door opening behind him and the tail end of a conversation drifting across the street.

He waited until they were halfway up the road before he turned to look. Yes, there was Potter in his half-hearted Glamour. Draco waited again until they had turned the corner at the end of the road, then followed at a pace that looked like a saunter but was in fact surprisingly swift. He put his hands in his jeans pockets and raised his shoulders against the cold breeze that had started up. At the bottom of the road he saw the bus cresting the hill and broke into a run, getting across the road to the bus stop just as the number 31 arrived.

He couldn't have planned it better. Last on the bus, Draco flicked his eyes around the passengers on the lower deck. Potter and co. must have gone to the upper deck. He grabbed firm hold of the hand-rail as he climbed the stairs, the bus making jerky, stop-start progress. As he reached the top of the steps he heard a rowdy conversation to his right, and looking up saw Potter and his companions sprawling over the seats at the very front of the upper deck. He quickly turned away to his left and selected a seat about halfway down the bus. 

They were talking so loudly he could still hear almost every word, although that didn't do him much good. He couldn't understand a word they were saying. The young man with the black hair rising up over his head and purple lipstick was wearing a big grin and talking about Wittgenstein; the girl, who had the most bizarrely coloured hair for a Muggle, was talking about Foucault; the ordinary-looking guy was telling them both to shut up and didn't they realise it all came down to control of the means of production; and Potter? Potter was looking about as bewildered as Draco felt, but he was clearly enjoying himself none the less, as he had an enormous smile on his face and kept giggling. In fact all four of them looked remarkably happy. 

Draco quickly stifled the resentment that sprang up in his chest and stretched out on his seat, letting his senses expand around the bus. It felt safe enough - he and Potter were the only Wizarding folk on either deck. Draco looked out of the window, continuing to observe the group out of the corner of his eye, tuning out their pointless conversation, wondering whether this trip had been such a good idea after all.

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Three hours later, Draco was thoroughly bored, more than a little irritated, and almost sure this trip had been a mistake. He had learned to appreciate Muggles, he really had, but right now he could cheerfully strangle them. All of them. It certainly felt as if all of them had descended on Camden Lock and with the sole aim of making his life difficult. In theory, a crowd made it easier to follow someone without being noticed. However, in practice these crowds made it very, very difficult. He'd just get himself at a nice distance to observe Potter and the area around him without making himself conspicuous when another wave of humanity would surge between them, cutting Potter off from view and allowing him to move on to a new stall or walk around a corner without Draco seeing where he'd gone. The sky was cloudy and the sun ready to set, which only made matters worse. 

It was making Draco very tetchy. So far he'd told two stall-holders, a hawker and several sharp-elbowed shoppers to "Fuck off and leave me alone." He hated resorting to rudeness and he hated losing his temper. He couldn't afford to lose control. So when Potter and his pack left the market and headed away from the crowds, Draco heaved a huge sigh of relief. When they stopped and went into a cafe, he was wondering whether he could justify going in too. It looked a little small, and he didn't want to be noticed following them out. Then he saw another cafe on the other side of the street, almost opposite, and his mood brightened considerably. 

He opened the door into the welcoming warmth and walked up to the counter past the mainly empty tables. He looked distractedly at the menu chalked up on the wall, trying to keep an eye on the other side of the street at the same time. He could just see Potter in the other cafe; well, not so much Potter as his hair, visible over the top of the potted plant in the window. Draco quickly ordered himself a hot chocolate and a wholemeal scone (the only kind on offer) and took a seat near the window, ignoring the rainbows which decorated it and focusing all his attention on his mark. He settled himself down, facing outwards across the street, and blew across his hot chocolate. He breathed in the sweet mist which rose up and wondered whether the conversation Potter was having was as banal as he suspected.

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Banal or not, the conversation had gone on for a very long time. Draco had had to order a full meal to justify occupying his table (aduki bean bake with alfalfa sprout and red cabbage salad followed by vegan trifle, all of which was surprisingly enjoyable, if a little too wholesome for its own good). It was now fully dark outside, and the street was orange in the glow from the streetlamps. The window of the cafe opposite had long ago steamed up, and Draco had had to focus all his attention on the door, to make sure no-one leaving escaped his notice.

Although he was warm and full and enjoying a rather good espresso, Draco felt on edge. There was very little chance of Dark Wizards attacking Potter here and he was annoyed at himself for wasting time. He should have been researching those Muggles Potter was with, or finding out more about the two individuals he had sex with, or going back to that club. He was letting his personal feelings get in the way of the case. He sighed. He'd let himself off the hook for three weeks, immobilised; by what exactly? Shock? Anxiety? He had lost his grip on himself, again; he had to get his self-control back. 

As he made the resolution, he knocked back the last of his espresso and glared at Potter, or what little he could see of him. He was rising. At last, movement. Draco watched as Harry and the three others got up and put on their jackets and scarves, then got up himself to pay for his drinks and food. He cursed under his breath when he saw no waiting staff around, quickly tallied up his bill in his head and left the money on the table. 

As he put on his jacket and scarf, he saw Potter stepping out onto the street and lifting up his collar. Draco stood by the door, looking through its glass pane until the group were far enough up the street not to notice him, then slipped out and followed them. They headed back up to the Lock, but when they reached it they didn't stop, but carried straight on to the complicated crossroads by the tube station. Draco hurried so as not to lose sight of them as they turned a corner, then another and after a hundred yards more walked into a pub.

Draco stopped, still some way up the street from the pub entrance. He looked around him, then took the spelled parchment out of his jeans pocket, slipping his wand down his sleeve just far enough to cast the spell to activate it. He breathed out harshly through his nose. The street names and the map both confirmed that this was indeed the other club that Potter was in the habit of frequenting, but surely it wouldn't be open this early in the evening? He checked the street again, shrugged to himself and quickly transfigured his clothes to something more suitable, turning his jeans into khaki cargo pants and making both his t-shirt and his jacket black instead of blue. Today was turning out to be a very long day.

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Draco spent just over an hour nursing his pint at the bar and trying his best to blend into the background. Absurdly, he felt the same way he'd felt on his first visit to a gay bar, oh so many years ago, hoping in equal measure that someone would notice him and start a conversation, and that he would be left alone so he could properly gain his bearings.

On this occasion, after a few aborted attempts at conversation from the woman behind the bar, his latter hope was realised, and he was able to carry on watching Potter without distractions. Potter looked so natural in these surroundings, blending into the black and rich red decor like one of the regulars. Which, Draco supposed, he was. A movement at the other end of the bar distracted Draco and he saw the woman who had tried to talk to him propping a door open with a fire extinguisher. 

"Club's open. Plastic glasses behind the bar if you want to take your drinks down." 

She spoke loudly enough to be heard throughout the room, but without shouting. Neat trick that. Draco watched as Potter and the three Muggles went up to the bar just near the door and had their drinks decanted into plastic glasses. He waited a few minutes before descending himself, leaving the dregs of his own drink on the bar, hoping this wasn't going to be more time wasted.

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Draco crouched down with his back against the far wall of the toilets. He had followed Potter in there, and was waiting for him to come out of a cubicle, ignoring the club-goers of both sexes as they entered and left, checked their make-up, had intense conversations by the door. Not that he thought he was going to see anything useful, but it was easier to see and hear than in the rest of the club, and frankly he was getting tired and bored. His mind wandered back to the last time he and Potter had been in a public toilets together: the disused girls' toilets at Hogwarts. 

Draco had never worked out what on earth had possessed him to attempt to cast the Cruciatus Curse on Potter, but the real shock had been Potter's reaction, both the Curse with which he responded and the look on his face when he saw what it had done. Draco had long concluded that it wasn't a Curse Potter had ever tried before. Yet another time that Snape had saved his life. Draco felt a pang of guilt and grief combined, but quickly squashed it down and returned his thoughts to Potter.

He moved on to pondering why he'd Obliviated Potter after he'd fucked him - and fucked with him - all those years ago. Perhaps he was afraid Potter would go to Dumbledore even though he'd had no proof. Or perhaps he'd thought it a simple way to avoid more complication in his already over-complicated life.

Perhaps. 

He certainly hadn't been protecting his own reputation. The only people whose opinions mattered to him, then, would have known that anything was admissable during an interrogation. The most unorthodox methods could produce the most useful results. Except that what he'd found out from Potter hadn't been so very useful after all. Voldemort had said nothing when he found that Draco had not carried out his orders, just stared, with his red, unblinking eyes...

_...staring at Draco, staring into him. He's standing in the grim, dank room, filling up the silence, telling the Dark Lord he's interrogated Harry Potter, trying to redeem himself, Oh shit oh shit oh shit, keeping his wall of Occlumency in place, thinking of anything but his interrogation methods._

_"Potter has no plan of attack," he is saying, Voldemort's red eyes burning and boring into his mind, singeing the barriers he erects around it. "He has no strategy, he was relying entirely on Dumbledore for guidance." Voldemort flinches at the headmaster's name. Oh shit oh shit mistake oh shit oh shit oh shit._

_"Fool boy! Just like your father, unable to carry out orders, so you thought you'd make up some of your own." The red eyes are all he sees, in front of his eyes, in his head. "Pathetic, the pair of you. Crucio!" He cannot speak, he cannot move, he doesn't know who he is or where he is or why he is, only that there is pain and pain and pain and pain and a sound of screaming and gurgling and retching from somewhere far off._

_He is shivering and shuddering, collapsing on the floor, the black in front of his eyes is shifting to silver and red and fanning out to dark shapes and shadows blurring before him. Dark on dark and Snape is writhing on the floor and why is that happening? He can't make it make sense. Dumbledore is dead, he should be pleased. The only thought in his head: Dumbledore is dead, he should be pleased. Dumbledore is dead, he should be pleased. Dumbledore is..._

_The thought drifts away as he watches his mother, her eyes fixed on his, a silent, intense gaze; her body tortured and stripped (Crucio, Evanesco, laughter), her flesh flayed and dismembered (hissing, hissing, Sectumsempradelicate Pannusvegrandiconseque) so precisely, so slowly, without anyone touching her. Without anyone touching her. No-one touching her. He is watching numbly, thinking how unfair, that she should die without anyone touching her. He is waiting for the Dark Lord to turn to him again, to kill him too. He is thinking of the last time anyone really touched him..._

...and someone touched him. He felt pressure on his fingertips and his eyes found focus on the face in front of him, on brows knitted together in concern over green, green eyes.

"Hey, are you okay there?"

Draco's arms and legs twitched and his mouth opened and shut for long moments before he drew in a long shuddering breath. He focused all his attention on the man's eyebrows and on the pressure of fingertips upon his own and on breathing - in, out, pause, in, out, pause. The fingers tentatively took his palm, and a hand, warm and dry, rubbed gently over the back of his own. 

"Do you know where you are?"

Draco brought his gaze down to take in the whole face, to look into the eyes in front of him.

"Yeah, yes." Another breath - in, out, pause, in. "I'm in the toilets in the Goth club under the Tap and Spile in Camden."

The face before him smiled reassuringly. 

"That's right. Yeah, good. What's your name?"

"D... Daniel." Draco he thought to himself.

"And where do you live?"

"South Kensington. I have a flat."

Normally, Draco would have balked at answering any of those questions, even with a false name, but he knew what Potter was doing. He was bringing him back to himself, trying to make sure he wouldn't slip into another flashback, and Draco was pitifully grateful. 

He hadn't had a flashback in years, not since his third month of living as a Muggle after the end of the war. Following Potter was stirring things up in him, things it would be much better to leave settled and sedimented. But there was no help for it. Potter was his assignment, and unless he wanted to come back from the dead he had better just get on with it.

"Good, that's good." Potter's response brought Draco's mind back to the present moment. He was still rubbing the back of Draco's hand. "Listen, I know it's none of my business, but I think I know what just happened to you, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be on your own for a bit. Do you want to come and sit with me and my friends, just for a little while? I mean, you can tell me to fuck off if you don't want to, no offence taken." 

Potter's eyes were warm with concern and for just a moment, Draco allowed himself to bask in that warmth. He didn't doubt that Potter had seen people going into flashbacks before, nor that he'd experienced them himself; he'd seen more of the war than anyone. Draco once again brought his mind back into the present and thought for a second. Go and sit with Potter and his friends? If he played this right he could find out a great deal more than Moody already knew. He looked Potter in the eye again, drawing his strength together, letting his real emotions show on his face.

"Are you sure? That'd be really great. It's a long time since I've had a... since that's happened. I'm feeling a bit shaken." It was true, after all.

Potter smiled. Draco realised that Potter had never smiled at him before. He had a lovely smile.

"Great. My name's Harry, by the way. Come on, I'll give you a hand up."

Potter stood and stretched his hand out to him. As Draco took it, he thought to himself that perhaps today might turn out alright after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a flashback and relives being tortured by Voldemort, and seeing his mother being killed by torture in front of him.


	9. The lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content notes for this chapter. Let me know if it needs them.

When he had woken up next to Maxine, crying, Harry had felt defeated. The dream he'd had, of Ginny, took him by surprise. He'd thought he was over all that. Then he'd opened his eyes and taken in the sight of of Maxine's hair, of her skin. Not really so surprising then. Maxine was a lot like Ginny to look at. Harry must have seen that through the club lighting and the cannabis haze in his brain the night before.

He had had a momentary thought of leaving just as Maxine had woken up. He was a little ashamed to think of it, now he'd got to know her. She was an interesting person, in a good way. Harry'd never met anyone like her before. Even though he was heart-rent and grieving, waking up crying into her hair, he'd found himself revelling in the scent of her, aroused by the feel of her against his skin. She had turned round to him and said a soft, "Good morning," eyes bleary and face innocent with sleep. Her fingers had stroked his back and she'd kissed him gently, coaxing his response, trailing her hands down to his buttocks, his thighs, squeezing. They had taken up where they had left off the night before, languidly pleasuring one another's bodies and senses. Oh, it was joyful. The grief drifted away and Harry escaped into sensation.

Afterwards, as they'd lain in bed together, cuddling, Harry had finally begun to take in his surroundings. The room was small but light and airy, with a gentle, artistic feel to the decor. There was only one photograph in the room, on a bedside table. Harry was feeling comfortable and relaxed, so he asked who it was. Maxine smiled, and replied, "Oh, that's Christian, he's my fiance. He works away in Sweden most of the time. That's where he's from."

Harry took in a sharp breath at the word "fiance". Then he held it for a bit, blinking at the picture of a young man with shoulder length blond hair standing next to a lake, a broad grin in his sun-pinked face. Harry's mind ground to a complete halt, the situation so far outside of his experience he had no way of approaching the mismatch between what he had thought was going on and what Maxine had said just now. When he finally brought himself to look at Maxine again, she was in a kind of a happy reverie, gazing at her fiance's image, wistful smile still in place. She must have finally noticed the silence, because she looked at Harry with a slightly cautious smile on her face.

"It's alright, Harry, no need to look so worried. We may be getting married next year, but that doesn't mean we own each other's minds or bodies. Or hearts."

"Um," said Harry, letting out his breath. "Oh."

He felt incredibly out of his depth. He'd thought this was a nice simple bit of fairly casual, friendly sex. Things seemed to be terribly complicated all of a sudden.

"It's really simple, Harry," she said, and Harry thought perhaps she could read his mind. "I'm in love with Christian, we're getting married, but we also have relationships - some with sex, some without - with other people too."

"Oh," said Harry again. "I didn't know people did that."

Maxine laughed. "Well, now you do. So, what do you fancy for breakfast? There's a really nice Polish bakery in town, or I could rustle something up here if you wanted and we could come back to bed afterwards."

Maxine delivered the last part of her sentence with a look that was both sultry and twinkling at once, and trailed a fingertip over Harry's chest. It seemed clear to Harry what she would prefer and he rather agreed. He shoved his confusion to the back of his mind and leaned closer to her until his lips were hovering just over hers.

"I'm not really hungry for food."

His voice was low and husky and Maxine made a noise in response that sounded rather like a cat purring. They kissed languidly, lips soft, tongues pliant. It was another hour before either of them mentioned food again

\----------------------------------------------------

Harry looked at the limp sandwich on his desk, sitting on its paper plate looking grey and unappetising, and sighed. He really should start making packed lunches again. Relying on leftovers from Ministry lunch meetings was great in theory, but in practice led to Harry not eating at all. But then, he thought, smiling to himself, he was a little busy these past few weeks to be thinking about sandwich fillings in the morning - at least not ones to do with food. He sniggered at his own appallingly adolescent pun and cast an Evanesco at the plate and its sandwich.

"You're in a good mood today, Harry," remarked Tonks, knocking over a hatstand as she entered his office.

Harry smiled up at her.

"Oh, you know, life's pretty good."

Tonks righted the hatstand and walked over to his desk, sitting on the edge of it.

"Well, that's good to hear, Harry. Remus and I were worried about you for a while there. You were looking so tired and glum. It's good to see you brightening up."

Harry frowned briefly in annoyance, covering it up by leaning down to pick up a paper clip from underneath his desk. Bloody typical. People worried about him, but did they ever try to do anything about it? Of course they didn't.

"Well," he said, straightening back up, "it's nice to know someone cares."

He thought he'd kept his tone light, kept the bitterness out of his voice, but one glance up at Tonks' face told him otherwise. She was looking at her knees, a chastened expression on her face. A moment later, though, she cast it off.

"Want to come to lunch? Remus is taking me to Soho for sushi. All you can eat. Want to join us?"

Harry looked at the pile of paperwork overflowing from his in-tray, at the even bigger pile stacked precariously in 'pending'. He really should stay here and work, but what dent could an hour possibly make in his current workload? He swore the papers bred while he wasn't looking. Which, given the nature of some of the reports, wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility. He shook his head, pushing away the gloom that had started to threaten his good mood and looked back up at Tonks.

"Yes, of course I'll come out to lunch. It's ages since I've had a chance to just sit and chat with the two of you."

He knew that wasn't strictly true, but if there was one thing working at the Ministry had taught him it was how to bend the truth for the sake of social nicety and an easy life.

\------------------------

This, thought Harry, was precisely why he didn't spend more time with old members of the Order.

Lunch had started off well enough, with the three of them on fixed seats around a small table in the packed sushi restaurant, plates full of sushi rolls and sashimi before them, talking about how Ron and Hermione were doing, when McGonagall might retire, how Tonks and Remus were getting on with re-  
decorating. So far, so boring, so safe. But then, inevitably, the present day topics dried up and the past strode in to fill the vacuum. He wasn't  
sure how, but they'd somehow come around to talking about Draco Malfoy. He felt his dick twitching as images from his dreams came back to him, like little flares going off in his mind, momentarily blinding him to the world around him. He rubbed his face, willing the images away, bringing his attention back to what Remus and Tonks were saying.

"Weren't you the one that found him, Dora?"

Tonks nodded her head.

"Poor thing. He was in a really bad way, babbling. I went off to get Kingsley, but by the time I got back he was dead. Moody'd taken his body away."

Remus looked thoughtful.

"Do you know where he's buried?"

Tonks looked up at her husband. Harry could see her eyes getting glassy.

"No. I... he probably just got put in a mass grave with all the others who..."

She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, visibly pulled herself together. Then she sat up straight and opened her eyes, focusing again. She looked at Harry.

"Odd thing, though, Harry. In all of the babble, there was one phrase that stuck out. He kept saying, 'I did it because of Potter'." She frowned, looking away from Harry again and pushing the last piece of uneaten raw salmon around her plate. "I wonder what that was all about?"


End file.
